Christmas Cookies
by naturally morbid
Summary: One-Shot. John realizes that "simple sugar cookies" are not quite as easy as their title suggests and spends an evening tangling with a kitchen, some stairs, and a certain roommate's abhorrence of Christmas just to feed his sweet tooth. And even that doesn't go as planned.


**Author's Note: **Hope this hasn't been done this way before and apologize in advance if it has. Had a sudden gust of inspiration while baking cookies as gifts for Christmas. Just a fun one-shot. Hope no one is too OOC.

Has nothing to do with my other Sherlock fic and more just something that has been bouncing around my brain all day.

Reviews are appreciated, but not required :)

Enjoy! Happy Holidays!

**Disclaimer: **Don't own the characters. I might own the cookies, provided someone hasn't devoured them yet. But I think someone might have…

* * *

**Christmas Cookies**

The trouble started with John Watson feeling peckish the night before Christmas Eve. He deduced that the rumbling of his stomach was probably caused by the overly cheerful advertisement he had just watched for Christmas cookies from a mixture.

He couldn't recall the last time he had baked any treats for the upcoming holiday. John glanced clandestinely around the flat, noting the serious lack of Christmas cheer.

Sherlock had adamantly refused to allow John even one decoration, deeming the whole holiday a flagrant waste of money, and more importantly – investigation time.

"This isn't one of those situations like the solar system, is it?" John had asked a few days prior, partly because he was curious and partly because he knew the reference to lack of primary knowledge would irk Sherlock all over again.

"Hardly," Sherlock told him flippantly, not bothering to glance up from his microscope.

"You must have gotten coal for Christmas as a child," John said.

"Actually, I did. Necessary for an experiment at the time."

"Well that's not all that bad. You needed it."

"It was from Mycroft." John failed to see the significance of the gift being from Mycroft. Harry had given him plenty of perfectly lovely gifts through the years.

"A nice gift from a sibling then."

"Mycroft and 'nice' fail to belong in the same sentence."

"Well that hardly has anything to do with your dislike of Christmas," John had pointed out.

"The experiment failed."

"And so you blamed Mycroft?"

"Obviously."

"That was one gift. You can't prove he purposely foiled your experiment."

"He provided me with a rock painted to appear as coal." John had sighed; already weary of why they couldn't decorate the place, just for a little while. Mrs. Hudson's flat was cozy, with little twinkling lights, a tree, and stockings. She had even taken to wearing a sweater with a reindeer knitted in the front, the one visible eye and red nose represented by glittering craft jewels.

John would probably never resolve the actual mystery of Sherlock's dislike of Christmas. Any time he questioned Sherlock about such a hindering problem, he received a different answer on anything from corporate greed to religion.

Now, after he had glanced around this evening, John realized he could probably bake some simple sugar cookies and Sherlock would never notice. He snorted at the idea.

Then paused, as his stomach rumbled again.

It wasn't such a bad idea. Would be a total shame to waste it.

Rising from the depths of the chair, he padded into the kitchen. Every surface seemed to be consumed with one experiment or another. John supposed the kitchen in their flat should be termed the 'lab.' He glanced at a set of test tubes, horrified to see a thick layer of dust accumulated on the glass rims.

Sherlock would not mind too much then, if John moved some experiments around, just to bake one simple batch of cookies. Cookies, which he would later share.

Besides, as Sherlock's roommate half the kitchen belonged to John. And Sherlock seemed to be the only one to use it.

John cleaned a few counters, while keeping an eye on Sherlock to be sure the detective was completely engaged with his work. Setting his laptop on a clean surface, John found a recipe for sugar cookies and set about searching for mixing bowls and ingredients.

These were few and far between. Things, things that John did not want to contemplate, had been measured, mixed, and baked into the bowls.

"Mrs. Hudson then," John muttered as he walked downstairs.

John could hear one of the incredibly crap telly shows on he sometimes watched with her, blaring in the background as Mrs. Hudson called her greetings.

"John?" she asked, opening the door.

"Good evening Mrs. Hudson. I have a rather odd request I'm afraid."

"Yes? It wouldn't have to do with storing something deceased in my freezer, of course. Or blowing holes in my walls?"

John chuckled, though he knew she wasn't simply jesting, given Sherlock's track record for destroying his apartment. "No, nothing like that I'm happy to report. Actually, this is a personal request."

"Oh. Well that's just fine."

"I need to borrow some baking supplies."

"For what exactly?" She looked mildly alarmed.

"Cookies."

She laughed, relieved. "Of course dear. Help yourself. Just be sure to return them in the same condition in which they leave. Clean." She stepped aside to allow him entry. John observed that she seemed prepped for an afternoon in, wearing comfortable, fluffy, pink slippers and a housecoat.

"I'll only be a moment then." He hurried off to her kitchen, where he had spent more free time preparing tea than he wanted to contemplate just then.

Bowls and measuring cups in his arms, John let himself out with the promise he would return later with her items and hopefully some cookies.

Entering the apartment, Sherlock was fully engaged in staring at a web of facts from several possible cases, exactly as John had left him when he began his cookie quest.

Arranging the bowls, John searched the cabinets for ingredients again thinking that he had simply overlooked them in his haste for materials in which to measure them.

Nothing. As usual.

He desperately needed to make a dash to the market, but not tonight in chilly weather.

Not wanting to bother Mrs. Hudson again, John conducted a more thorough search.

There was flour. He added the necessary cups to one bowl, after testing the powdery substance to be sure it was what the bag professed.

He found some baking soda, hidden away and forgotten. John was sure to test that ingredient as well, hoping it wasn't poison or drugs. That was added and stirred as well. He decided to combine the dry half of the mixture prior to the wet half with eggs and butter.

"Baking powder?" There was none to be found in the flat. Opening drawers and cabinets again, John discovered bullets of various sizes, poisons, darts, knives, and even string. But nothing that would be appropriate baked into a cookie.

John traipsed down the stairs again, hoping this was the last time, and that their fridge would prove more hopeful for the other half of the cookies.

"Mrs. Hudson?" John called, rapping on the door softly.

"Yes dear? The door is open. My program is in the midst of revealing a paternity test."

"I just need to borrow some baking powder."

"Help yourself." He grabbed the canister, thanked their landlady again, and hurried back upstairs. The only visible change in Sherlock was his fingers were now laced, a sign of some of his deepest concentration.

"Right, baking powder, soda, and flour." He glanced at the recipe again. Prep time claimed fifteen minutes and John had already spent thirty minutes and was only halfway completed with the treats.

"Butter, softened." Approaching the refrigerator, John hoped that Sherlock had finally disposed of the severed head.

Upon opening the door, he discovered this was sadly not the case. There was the head, looking more unappealing than ever, staring at him. John huffed, wondering should he find the butter inside, would he actually want to make use of it when it had been stored with such a gruesome object.

"Perhaps if it's been in a drawer," he mumbled. He chose one at random and yanked it open.

"Agh!" came the strangled cry from John's throat. Not a severed head, but a hand. And no butter, he reminded himself as he slammed the drawer shut. Glancing at Sherlock, John realized the detective had not moved. "That does not belong in a home." He couldn't imagine what Sherlock was studying with the hand; probably something like a particular bruising after death from a keyboard or the like.

John picked another drawer, as far as possible away from the head and the hand.

"Gah!" This drawer was quickly slammed shut as well, for inside, there was a severed foot. John turned and cast an angry glare at the back of Sherlock's head, before sighing and preparing to head downstairs again. It seemed that his flatmate was maybe fonder of Halloween than Christmas, judging by the items in the fridge.

This time, Mrs. Hudson's voice had lost some of the friendly tone as she invited him in once more, to raid her kitchen for simple sugar cookies.

"And just what have you neglected this time?" she asked, hovering over John as he gathered butter, an egg, and some sugar.

"The fact that our freezer serves as a morgue part time," John explained.

"Good heavens!" Not quite the words that John had thought when he had initially opened the fridge, but similar feeling. Mrs. Hudson clapped a hand to her heart.

"My sentiments exactly."

"No wonder he appears so sickly, keeping such dreadful items in your flat as opposed to proper food."

"Hence the cookies for supper." Investigations had kept them busy for the last few days, so John had neglected cooking attempts or trips to the market. He wondered if one of the neglected experiments found around the kitchen was Sherlock's means of seeming to exist on only air and intrigue. "Thank you Mrs. Hudson. This will hopefully be the last time before the cookies are completed."

She made a non-committal sound before returning to the room where her telly was located.

John rushed back up the stairs and added what he thought to be the main ingredients. "Okay. Flour, check. Soda, check. Powder, check. Butter, double check. Sugar, check. Egg, check…"

Vanilla. No check. John set his jaw in frustration as he scanned the recipe again.

He could just omit vanilla this once. Would it matter?

Then again.

All the work he had put into these cookies, thanks to Sherlock's Scrooge ways. Might as well go the full monty.

"One more time," John muttered to himself, not bothering to glance in Sherlock's direction. He was confident the detective was still in the same place.

"Mrs. Hudson?" he called through the door.

"What could you possibly require now?" she asked, finally appearing at the door. John flushed with color as he admitted his forgetfulness in regards to the vanilla.

This time, Mrs. Hudson padded off to retrieve it for him, rather than having John clomp across her flat. She slammed the door in his face.

Weary, already way past the normal prep time, John made his way back up to his and Sherlock's flat.

Before remembering that he probably would not find cooking pans. Or would perhaps open the oven and find another surprise waiting for him.

"I help pay the rent and can't make use of the majority of the apartment," he mumbled to himself, hastily measuring vanilla into the bowl and stirring.

Finally, John scribbled a note about where he would be the remainder of the evening should Sherlock require his presence. Then, gathering all the items he had borrowed from Mrs. Hudson, he trooped downstairs once more.

He trudged into Mrs. Hudson's flat without bothering to knock, turned on the oven, and began measuring the cookies out onto pans. For a long time, she didn't attempt to speak to him.

After a long silence, she finally asked, "Fight with the boyfriend?"

John chuckled, "No, row with the kitchen we're supposed to share." She nodded, knowingly. The timer beeped multiple times, alerting John that his small piece of Christmas was ready.

"Cookie?" He doled them out and bit into the simple delight. Ah, worth all the work.

X

Hours later, Sherlock finally traipsed downstairs after calling for John repeatedly, only to be met with silence and eventually a note.

"John, I have been calling for you," he said, standing behind Mrs. Hudson's couch. His assistant and landlady were seated at opposite ends, the very pictures of relaxation with a plate piled high with sugar cookies on the coffee table in front of them.

"And?" John asked, not taking his eyes from the Christmas special, a cookie poised at his lips. Mrs. Hudson 'shushed' them both as she crunched down on another cookie.

"I've solved the cases."

"Wonderful."

"All ten victims were murdered with simple sugar cookies given to them by their neighbor, a Santa impersonator." John and Mrs. Hudson glanced at each other then slowly returned their cookies to the plate, as Sherlock rounded the couch and plunked himself in the middle, seemingly at a loss as to why they both appeared to be a shade of mint green.

"I am beginning to understand your dislike of Christmas," John mumbled, watching enviously as Sherlock plucked a cookie from the top of the pile.

X


End file.
